Her Song Had Been His Saving Grace
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "It was a delicate balance between injecting too much venom and not enough; of taking enough blood to allow room for it in her system but not taking enough to drain her. He struggled most with not getting carried away in the aria." Carlisle reflects on the moment he took Esme's life from her. Canon One-shot. In character. Esme/Carlisle.


_The characters are the property of S Meyer and affiliates. I make no money from writing about these characters – simply catharsis. The arias referenced are also not my property. I am sure the copyright is out on those but still...Please read and review. Reviews make my day._

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The sky was solidly onyx, the stars glittering startlingly against the velvet of midnight. He idly fingered the cotton of the sheets – fresh and rich – which rested over her abdomen. In different places they were ripped, having fallen victim to his unusual lack of control. Esme would lament them later, but either too sated or too ponderous, she had yet to admonish his carelessness. He was inclined to wonder if tonight, she simply did not care. As they lay on their sides, her back pressed to his chest, they stared out into the forest and the night that wrapped around the world. He could still smell dust; not on the sheets, but from the places their thorough cleaning had yet to reach. He had been more than happy to help her clean today, and even Emmett and Jasper had colluded in the clean up of the Forks house. As a rule, they did not return to places they had previously stayed until at least 70 years had passed and then she had to re-do the entire property. It felt right though, however traumatic the last year had been, to be in Forks again. He could not deny that he loved this house or the happiness that had grown from it.

He glanced at the clock and, on instinct, pulled her as close as possible. He had always despised midnight. It was a remnant of his human life, when the witching hour had petrified those who were clever enough to make the correlation between darkness and demonic pursuits. It had been at midnight that he had first accompanied his father, then later led, the hunting parties through the streets of London. He could only assume this, of course, because he had synthesised these memories from his reading about the time period, rather than actually retained them. He had retained his fear of midnight though, spending his first night as a vampire paralysed with horror in the sewers of London. To think of it now made him ache with embarrassment. He had been so absolutely ignorant.

He had hated midnight until her.

The first time he had made love to her, it had been on the stroke of midnight. The wedding ring she had given him merely hours before had made a startling contrast to the paleness of his skin, and along with the wonderful recollections of that witching hour, it struck him as odd that this was his overwhelming memory. He thought of his hands clutching the pillow – knuckles tight with the pain of maintaining control – and realising that the appearance of feathers had not been the shedding of his new wife's wings. It had been the realisation of the union he had been waiting for for all eternity.

He laughed at the utter romanticism of his notion. His sons would cringe to hear it. Edward often did, and more complex than Carlisle in this regard, found his father's chivalric notions rather embarrassing. He had made it abundantly clear on numerous occasions that to be privy to his father's most intimate thoughts brought him great pain.

"What makes you laugh?" She wondered quietly.

"I am thinking about our sons and reminiscing," he answered, aware that his answer was vague.

"Did you know," she said listlessly, "You have ruined our sheets?"

"Yes," he shook his head, smiled a small smile, "Do not embarrass me Esme, my dear."

"If you insist," she laughed lightly, her body shaking against his, "Though I mentioned it because it is, you will grant me, more in the style of our sons than you typically."

Her deep laughter, so suited to the calm alto of her voice, was joyous to hear. It had been so long since he had heard it that, didactic memory aside, it seemed fresh and new all over again. A memory was one thing, actual experience was entirely another.

"I am so glad to be home. I worked very hard on the Ithaca house," she suddenly said, "And yet it is the home I like the least."

"I understand fully why," he whispered.

The Ithaca house, a necessary purchase in the sudden upheaval brought about by Jasper's poor judgement, had ultimately been a miserable home for them. Carlisle had been prostrate with grief, Esme beside herself with worry, Alice and Jasper ridden with guilt and Emmett and Rosalie absent in the conflict. And of course, Edward had not once stepped inside it. Absconded, lost and travailing the Southern Americas like an orphan.

It had been, he would have wagered, his most challenging time as the head of the family as they lived their lives in that Ithaca house. He had not fared particularly well either and he had forgotten, in his own selfishness, that those around him struggled with Edward's self-imposed punishment too. He had thrown himself into the hospital, and when he was not at the hospital, he was lecturing at Cornell on Epidemiology and the History of Panademics and Epidemics. He could recall with painful clarity the last time he had taken Esme in his arms properly, and spent time with her like this and loved her as he just had, and he was ashamed at how long ago it had been.

"At times Carlisle," she said softly, and her tone told him that a revelation of sorts would follow, "I thought you would die with pain. You grieved so fully. It was worse than the first time he left."

He said nothing, instead he buried his face in her hair. And prayed silently.

_God, forgive me my trespass against her._

He had already apologised and for him to say it again would be ill-advised. Esme drew lines of forgiveness firmly, and to overstep them was to offend her again. He would not apologise because he had already begged her forgiveness and she had already accepted it. She just needed to talk to him, just as much as he needed to talk with her.

"I love you, so very very much Esme Cullen," he simply answered and he could see, in the reflection of the window which was dressed in midnight, her sweet smile. She smiled with joy, with completion.

"I was once Esme Anne Platt," she whispered coyly, "Did you love me then?"

She had, in the style he so admired, moved the conversation seamlessly. She was urging him to be nostalgic – something they both enjoyed – about their relationship.

"A flighty, beautiful 16 year old," he said, tracing his fingers over the scars that sat neatly in the crook of her neck. He was feeling reflective. The urge to have her, for the moment, was gone and he wished to tell her as eloquently as possible of his love for her.

There were no action, nor words, nor music to convey such love but he would never cease trying despite how futile it may be.

The scars were perfectly soft now, an opalescent, delicate shade of nacre, risen only slightly from the rest of her skin. It fascinated him, and he had never once hidden it, that the initial bite was the only one to remain with the victim after the transformation. The rest healed in time, but the initial bites remained as promiment scars - he had discovered- over the course of meeting many of their kind. This was fine for Esme, but those who had been viciously attacked bore far worse scars. Hers were neat and tidy and their appearance belied the inner turmoil of the vampire who had pierced the skin there, and drunk, and had to withhold himself from any further feasting.

And in that moment, it had been a vampire who had given her those scars. Dr Carlisle Cullen - the gentleman and scholar and creature who had chosen another life entirely from others of his kind – had stood in the corner of the morgue and watched in horror as a vampire, dressed in his clothes and using his body, had sunk his teeth into the only thing he had ever truly desired in the carnal way which he had only ever read about.

The vampire wanted Esme Anne Platt.

He pressed his finger over the scars again, just under the place where her frozen, still artery lived under the timeless skin, and venom pooled in his mouth at the memory. He found himself lost in the vividness of it all as the recollection washed over him.

He had suffered a testing day at work and even though he did not feel tiredness, tiredness seemed to haunt him just at the edges of his existence. Something had shaken him today and, after years being around destructive humans, this was unusual so it was all the more difficult when it happened. A mother had killed her 4 children; their little bodies cold and lifeless on the slabs in the bowels of the hospital. He had tried to save the youngest one but it had been futile. He had called times of death an hour ago and had simply sat in his chair in his office, staring at the door. His mind had been drawn time and time again to his companion, his son, Edward and he had been horrified at the very thought of taking the boy's life. Sometimes, humans made his soul weak with agony.

After hours of sitting perfectly still, with no calls coming and no more surgeries scheduled, he began rearranging the neat files which lay on his desk. He thought of Edward at home and considered it best to get back. Edward found it difficult to be alone for prolonged periods of time and in all honesty, Carlisle needed to see him, to ensure himself that he was unharmed. He stood up and scooped the files into his briefcase, readying himself for the walk home. It had been dark outside and back in 1921, people rarely prowled the streets at all hours as they did now, so he was not a threat to humans and they certainly were not a threat to him.

When the door to his office fell open, and the young resident stood there, it was not the slightly disheveled set of his collar or the murmuring of his blood which stole Carlisle's attention. The smell that entered the room with him overpowered every other sense he possessed. He could still smell it, a hint of it, from the hair in which his nose was buried in the present. It was vanilla and freshly cut grass, tied with the scent of apples and cotton. It was a smell he had never, ever forgotten.

It had floated in the doorway from the bowels of the hospital, lodged between those little children. It then climbed the stairs like a person and invaded him. It transported him, in seconds, to a decade previous and the rich orchard of the Platt farm in Columbus.

In a second, he gained composure.

"Dr Yates?"

"Dr Cullen," the young boy was respectful, towing the shiny wooden floors with the tip of his brogue in a nervous manner, "A few of the other staff are going to a dance…"

"Thank you, Andrew," he cuffed the young man kindly on the shoulder as he joined him at the door – a human affectation – and smiled, "But I must be getting home."

"Of course doctor," the young man stalled with him at the door.

"Did the nurses suggest you ask?"

They shared a laugh in the affirmative.

"Yes," Carlisle smiled, "Of course they did."

The laughed amicably again and Carlisle had felt a sense of camaraderie with the young resident. He was a kind human, doing this job for the right reasons, navigating life in an awkward yet resilient way.

"Have a pleasant evening Dr Cullen," Yates smiled, moving away in the direction of the group of staff from Carlisle's shift who were waiting by the swing doors.

"Dr Cullen," the young man drew his attention, "You're going the wrong way."

"I am going to go by the pathology lab first," he lied, turning back, "have a nice evening."

The smell had carried him and in the silence of the halls, and he padded softly and quietly, forgetting his usual trick of making his shoes scuff slightly so that he made the sound of a human. He breathed though; he breathed more heavily than he had in many years. He inhaled the scent as it grew stronger. Through heavy double doors, past a gurney, down 3 flights, across tiled floors, down into the part were the tiles grew colder and the air even more so.

As he drew nearer he could hear the soft, faint, desperate beat of a heart. Desperately, it thudded against a frozen chest. Chambers opened and closed sporadically and blood tricked through them. Bradycardia – a slowing of the heart. Still, it was there; the weak, poor thud of a body in the final stages.

His palm was harsher than he meant it to be against the swing door and it bounced off the internal wall, making a clang in the deep silence.

There were 7 slabs in all, steel and cold and echoing. In the middle, the heartbeat drew him but it was the smell even more so.

He remembered everything. He had a bottomless, endless oblivion of memories. If he closed his eyes he could still remember the distinct smell of the sewers of London and from before, in his human life, he could recite entire passages of the bible from memory still. So this smell was as fresh to him as if it were entirely new. But it was not. Tagged to it, like the tag around the toe he now stood before, was the memory that had stayed in a recess of his brain for a good number of years.

Before Edward, before happiness. The zoetrope of memory played out before him.

Esme Anne Platt. 16. Beautiful. Climbing a tree to see over the orchard . Emerald eyes and a smile that was too young to realise how inviting it was. The shudder under his hands as he gently examined her knee.

Her blood had sang to him; an aria, an invitation. For the first time he had thought to devour a human whole. She had tested him. He smiled, as he always did, when he recalled how Esme had been his test.

He had pulled back the sheet and in the solid, cold silence of the morgue it made a fluttering noise that was worryingly loud. She was frozen to the touch as, feeling as indecent as he would permit himself, he had ran his finger across the knee which was slightly uneven on the surface of the patella - indicating a break in the past. He returned her long gown down to her ankle, allowing himself finally to look at her face. It was the same girl. Woman; he reminded himself. For she was that now and from the set softness of her body, she was a mother too. Her face was the face of a woman. Her body was the body of a woman. Her blood still sung now. Louder than before.

In the present he recalled Edward's words after his recent return from Volterra; "la tua cantante". Carlisle had understood the theorem fully, the intimate song of the blood that had caused such a huge quantity of venom to fill his mouth that, had he been human, he would have chocked. Esme had been his one and only _cantante. _

Her blood had not been the _duo les fleurs_, nor was it Offenbach's _barcarolle_. It was not the joy of the _Brindisi _or the threat of _Nessun Dorma_. It was the agony of _un bel dei,_ laced with the timeless beauty of desperation that coloured every cadence and note of the aria. Her blood had been agonisingly beautiful.

And her heart, thought faint, still beat the small rhythm of a human. She had been an encore of utter temptation.

He had touched her hair then, pushing aside the horror that his colleagues elsewhere in this hospital had thought her too far gone that she may as well die exactly where she would be be taken anyway; the morgue. Pragmatism was a human condition that he often found more problematic than the majority of medical maladies he encountered. Pragmatism had no empathy.

"Esme," he murmured, "Beautiful Esme."

Saying it aloud, in the holy silence of the mortuary, seemed less self-indulgent than he had imagined in his head when he had first thought to say it. Her heartbeat thudded suddenly.

This happened just before death in patients; a final surge of adrenaline driving the soul from the body.

Her body had been broken broken. The blunt force trauma of such a fall had shattered her into a thousand little pieces. He could see it in the twisted set of her frame and the jutting position of her shattered pelvis.

It was ironic; most of his colleagues secretly enjoyed the role of the saviour; the omniscient giver of life and death. He found it repulsive. Right now he stood, conjecturing on the two horrors he had the power to gift her; eternity or oblivion. Perhaps, he though ruefully, these two fates were as deplorable as each other. Her blood still drew him, even more so as her heart made a last stand against oblivion.

She had been so beautiful, even as she lay broken in the morgue. He had stood with her under that tree and thought only of how full of life she was, her soft hands clenching his lab coat as her good nature won out over the pain. He could still remember, feel, touch the agony of discovering her body in the morgue.

His thought had been this; surely a good nature like that should not leave this earth at such a young age.

But no, he had quickly chastised himself it was wrong to play God.

God did not take what he wanted simply because he wanted it.

He had wanted, suddenly, to fill the tag in as her body slipped its mortal coil. He wanted, so desperately, to give her her name back. She had been given no identification. He pulled his fountain pen from his top pocket and in his looping scroll that spoke of its origins at the end of a quill, pulled the toe tag out.

_Esme Anne Platt. _

_26._

Suddenly, a soft groan filled his ears. To a human, it would have been imperceptible but to him it was deafening. His head snapped up from the tag. She groaned again. Soft, sweet.

"Esme?"

He was at her side in a flash.

"Dr Cullen…"

"Esme," he didn't even register her recollection, "Esme, I am here."

End it for her; he thought to himself. Show her mercy. He scooped her into his arms. She was almost as cold as him. Her blood rose to a crescendo then.

"Dr Cullen..."

"Esme," he soothed, "Hush. You are safe."

She rasped a final, ragged breath, "You're here."

He had told himself not to play God but be could not, ultimately, resist. 200 years of abstinence had done nothing to train his urge for companionship, for love. He had pushed her head to the side lightly and, tracing the thrum of her carotid with his tongue, sunk his teeth into her neck. Her skin had tasted delicious but by all that was heavenly, her blood was debilitating in its taste. She had writhed, not much, nonetheless he had to use his hand to brace against her jaw to hold her steady. Simply to touch her was pleasure in its most delicate sense. If he had been honest with himself in that moment, he had wanted to hold her as he bit her. It was the most erotic, most awful act he had ever committed. He had mustered pragmatism as he drew her blood – the first dribble, the first note of the piece.

It was a delicate balance between injecting too much venom and not enough; of taking enough blood to allow room for it in her system but not taking enough to drain her. He struggled most with not getting carried away in the aria.

He had pulled away, with Herculean effort, as soon as he felt her body grow incredibly still. He had heard her arteries changing, heard her heart booming in her chest as it pushed the venom around her system. He had swiped his hand over his mouth, and then to stave the smell of the blood, rolled his sleeve up swiftly. Finally, he had scooped her up into his arms and made his way out of the hospital.

He considered this his most divine moment in all of his immortality, as well as his most shameful moment. Having resisted Esme's blood, he knew now he could never want the blood of another human. He had never told her this; but she had offered him peace finally, from fear. Her blood had been his refuge. Her song had been his saving grace.

He loved to touch the neat, beautiful scars that had resulted from her blood's aria. Once, in a fit of passion, she had compared them to her wedding ring. A strange, perfectly legitimate metaphor. Poetic when she wanted to be, she had rendered him speechless in that moment.

"What are you thinking of?"

"The moment I decided to change you," he admitted, dipping his head to kiss the scars.

"I love them," she assured softly, knowing that he need to hear her say it. The vampire who had taken over him in the Ashland morgue had no remorse but Carlisle Cullen, the man who had condemned her to this, regretted it bitterly. His punishment was to have her love, unconditionally, for his eternity. From the outside, it would not be considered a punishment at all. But to Carlisle, she was a punishment because he would never be worthy.

She was so much more than he deserved.

She knew too well that he hated his own scars. When he had finally had the courage to gaze upon his own reflection, in the murky waters of the Thames, he had been horrified not only by the livid scarlet of his eyes but by the cluster of scars that were spread from his shoulder to just under his ear. The vampire who had bitten him had taken a few frantic attempts before taking any blood or leaving anything in his system – resulting in a number of initial bites that had not faded. They were uneven in depth and purpose, and the aggressive nature of their birth meant they had healed poorly, despite the fact that his body was made indestructible by the very poison for which they had been a conduit. He could picture them without a mirror now, but he had shirked looking glasses for nigh on a century before he could finally bare to look at them. Even then, he had been grateful for cravats and scarves and high collars.

She turned in his arms, looking into his face. Then she moved to mimic his previous caresses, touching his scars lightly. Even after nearly a century together, he flinched and drew away. Then, taking a breath, moved back under her fingers and forced himself to stay under her touch.

"Do you remember when Mandarin shirts were de rigueur?"

"Yes," he smiled, knowing what was coming as Esme continued.

"It was terrible trying to find collars you liked," she chided, "That was when you started wearing scarves even more."

He laughed at her light-hearted teasing, always impressed that she could bring light from something dark.

"Did Edward tell you about Aro's theory of 'the singer'?"

"Briefly, yes," she nodded, "It's...fascinating."

"It is true," he murmured quietly, "At the time I did not know it but you were my la tua cantante. Your blood, your blood was..."

He felt sickened by the desire that pooled within him, even at the memory, and was frightened to meet her eyes. She stared at him resolutely, her own eyes darkening with something unreadable. Then she kissed him fully on the mouth, with a strength that surprised him as she pressed herself against him.

"Esme, I wanted to own you," he whispered, against her neck, with all the reverence of a patre nostre, "I needed to have you. I thought only of what my life would be with, and without, you. Edward, this year, has shown better restraint than me. Had I not fled Columbus it would inevitably have come that I would have returned to your home and made you mine. I would have robbed you of your life. I might have been so out of control that I would have robbed you of immortality too."

She moved back and looked at him thoughtfully, "Did you tell him Carlisle? Have you ever told him?"

"No," he whispered.

He tried very hard to keep this realisation from his mind when Edward was in his company because he was, very bluntly, ashamed of the desire that had driven him to steal her from the rightful winner; death.

"No," she repeated, "No. That must be ours to keep."

Her possession of such a dark secret intrigued him, her desire to keep it as their treasure even more so. That he had been so beastly, that he had given into his baser urges, made him attractive to her within the confines of their relationship. That he had taken the omniscient decision to create her empowered her, she had once said. As contradictory as it was, the bond they shared in venom made Esme stronger, and she relished in it.

"You were in my trajectory," she said softly, "You were, and you always have been, my destiny."

"And our son now finds himself in this position," he said.

She nodded thoughtfully.

"What an awful position for him," she said solemnly, and his soul swelled with love for her, "You must help him in any way you can. He must see that there is hope."

"She is so _human_ Esme, so vulnerable," he sighed, "And she is determined."

She sat up, letting the sheets slide from her body. At first, she had been so painfully shy around him that he had worried she would never allow herself to be as free as this. They had both, he reminded himself, been indescribably shy. Now she sat, her ivory skin bathed in shards of moonlight, her body bared to him. And he was comfortable with it. The jealous moon, to whom worship must be paid by shape-shifters and vampires alike, did not shirk from her body as sun light did. He reached out his hand to trace the line of her spine, thought of those fractures that had once cracked the very bones – now stone – under his fingers.

"I was broken," she murmured, "I know I was."

She turned suddenly, throwing herself onto his chest, "I had to be broken, for me to take up my real life. My life with you. Perhaps Bella has been born into the wrong life."

He had to concede that he had considered this a possibility. Bella was, in his opinion, incredibly gracious towards them. He had told her this nearly a year ago, as he had stitched her arm in the study. She was, he would have argued, too enamoured by their lifestyle perhaps. It startled him though to think that someone could possibly choose this life. He knew though, that such humans did exist. If only they understood fully the reality, they would realise how horrible it was.

"Would you have chosen this life Esme, really, if I had not made this choice for you?"

Her answer was both instantaneous and emphatic, "Entirely. Completely."

He shook his head, "I find it hard to believe."

"You doubt my honesty?"

She laughed a little, lying back down as he pulled her to him. He threaded his fingers through hers and rested their hands on her abdomen.

"No no," he answered, "Rather, your sanity."

"Carlisle, " her tone was dark and firm, "You were the only man I had ever met who _spoke _to me. Not of me, or around me, or about me but _to_ me. You had such an impact that I could never forget you," she shook her head, "I could never forget you. You were not my saviour, despite how it might appear, you were my destiny. My blood sang to you..."

She looked at him, drawing him with the magnetism that her blood had all those years ago, as she continued;

"But your soul sang to me."

She was _un bel dei_. The agony and ecstasy of an entire orchestra. Her blood had long stopped, yes, but her song had not.

He allowed himself, once more, to become lost in her aria.

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_Thank you. Please r&r. _


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